For Auld Lang Syne
by johnsarmylady
Summary: John was settled in to celebrate the New Year on his own once more, but an adherence to old family traditions was to change his life once more. Happy New Year - Hope 2015 brings you all joy


**Wishing all my good friends and loyal readers a very Happy New Year - may 2015 bring you joy:)**

John sat in his darkened, utilitarian flat and stared at the television.

It would soon be 2015, and the noises from the parties being held in the other flats in his block was beginning to spill into his living room and drown out the flat and fake jollity of Jools Holland's Annual Hootenanny. It wasn't his favourite programme, but it was better than the film on the other channel or the selection of late night American sit-com repeats.

He wasn't even sure why he was still sitting there, except that, for as long as John could remember if he was able to he stayed up to see the old year out and the New Year in. It was pure sentiment and tradition.

Unbidden an image sprung to mind, a voice echoed in his head. _'Really John, it's just a day, like any other.' _

"Yes I know," he muttered to the empty room. "But I'm a Scot…."

'_Third generation'_ said the voice in his head. _'And you don't live in Scotland.'_

John reached for his mug of cocoa, now barely warm, and swigged down the thick sweet liquid with a grimace. A beer would have been nice, but his few remaining drinking buddies were busy with their families, and Harry was drying out once more in rehab.

The noise from outside grew in intensity as it seemed as if the whole of the country had decided to shout along with Mr Holland as he counted down the last ten seconds of 2014….

10….. John turned off the television.

9…. He crossed to the window

8…. Drawing back the curtains….

7…. He turned towards the illuminated face of the clock tower that housed Big Ben

6…. Slipping a cardigan on over his shirt

5…. He opened the window to 'let the old year out'

4…. Crossing back to stand in the doorway of his living room…..

3… John glanced back through the window

2….then turned to walk to his front door

1…. And placed his hand upon the latch

Big Ben rang out the chimes of midnight. From the surrounding flats, from out in the street below, cries of Happy New Year rent the air.

As the first sounds of fireworks screeching into the sky John opened the door to let the New Year in, and his heart stopped dead in his chest.

He blinked then stared, his eyes widening almost comically, only if this was a joke it was in poor taste.

"Happy New Year, John."

The so familiar baritone voice burst the bubble of shock that had held John in its thrall, and he gasped in a lungful of chill night air.

"I believe it's customary for the 'first footer' to bring gifts of coal and sustenance."

Long musician's fingers held a lump of coal, a bottle of Laphroig and a bag which smelled suspiciously of John's favourite dishes from Angelo's.

"You're dead." John shuddered, his legs suddenly weak, and he clutched at the door-frame to keep himself upright.

"May I come in?" This was a first for Sherlock, he was used to just marching in sweeping all before him, but here, now, this was not the time for arrogance – now was the time to respect John's personal space.

"How….?"

"Did I know you'd open the door? We spent several chilly New Year's Eve's letting out the old year and letting in the new because you had done it from childhood, and old habits die hard John, at least, I hoped your old habits would die hard."

Drawing in a deep breath John stepped back, allowing his 'dead' best friend entrance to the flat.

"Thank you." Sherlock let his eyes flick round the flat. "Um, where shall I…..?" He gestured towards the bag of food in his hand.

"Why now?" John asked.

Sherlock frowned.

"Because it'll get cold…"

"Not the food!" Suddenly John's temper erupted and he slammed the door shut, stalking towards his former flatmate.

Edging backwards, Sherlock retreated into the living room, careful not to go near the still open window while John's anger bubbled so close to the surface.

"It was time. The job was finished." Keeping his voice low and his eyes on the tense figure of the doctor. He sighed. "I came back as soon as I could."

"Two years, Sherlock. That is not soon."

"No, it's not, and I regret…."

"Regret what? Jumping off the roof and making me watch?"

"No." Putting down the 'gifts' he had brought, Sherlock reached out a hand and gently stroked his finger-tips down John's cheek. "I regret only that I had to leave you behind to keep you safe. I would have fared better, and we would have finished the job together sooner. But I did it because I would not allow them to kill you, I could not lose you that way."

"Keep me safe? You nearly killed me." The fight went out of the older man and his shoulders slumped.

Sliding his hand round to cup the back of John's head Sherlock pulled him close, dipping his head and capturing his lips in a kiss that showed the other man in no uncertain terms exactly how sorry he was for his action, how relieved he was that they had both survived, and how much he had missed this – the incomparable feel of his friend and lover, warm and breathing, in his arms.

It was irresistible. John melted against Sherlock, his arms going round the too thin body, drawing a sharp hiss of pain from those cupids bow lips.

"What is it?" The doctor moved back as if burned.

"Nothing, come here."

"That's not nothing Sherlock, let me see…"

Blue eyes glared fiercely into grey, and it was the younger man who backed down.

"I'll need to take my things off." He flicked his eyes towards the still open window – the noise and celebration forgotten in the moment – and John crossed the room to close both window and curtains.

"Come through to the bedroom, I'll get my kit."

Peeling off his Belstaff Sherlock followed, taking off his jacket and shirt as he stepped through the doorway, closing it softly behind him.

"Jesus!" John's soft curse broke the silence as he saw the barely healed lash marks criss-crossing the pale luminescent flesh of Sherlock's back.

"There's nothing you can do." The young man hung his head. "It's just tender, sensitive."

"Take the rest of your clothes off and lay on the bed, face down."

Sherlock shot him a grin, but it was lost as John was busy digging into his first aid kit for antiseptic cream.

Tensing, expecting the shock of cold ointment on his skin, the younger man gasped as soft warm lips kissed gently at each lash mark, followed by the delicate touch of John's skilled hands.

"Who did this to you?"

"Nicko Vasilescu, Romanian torturer." Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut – he'd dreamed of this, the gentle ministrations of his John – since his first confrontation with Moriarty's network, and now it was a reality he could let himself go.

John felt the tremors ripple through the body under his hands, growing steadily stronger, and as he bent his head to kiss the skin he once thought never to touch again he heard the barely restrained sob.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry." The baritone, no longer firm, broke as he rolled onto his side and reached for the solid, compact body hovering over him. "Take me back? Please?"

"I never let you go….."

It was a home coming, a forgiveness and a pledge of forever all rolled into one as their bodies came together for the first time in two years, Sherlock's hands making light work of removing John's clothing yet at the same time pulling them together, grinding his aroused body against the burgeoning hardness he freed from the other man's jeans.

"Fuck…."

"Later, for now I need….."

"Yes." John pushed himself into Sherlock's hand while scrabbling behind him for the antiseptic cream, squeezing a large amount into his hand.

"John?"

"No lube." John said a little breathlessly as he caught them both in his hand, pushing Sherlock's fingers aside as he stroked them both in a smooth but fast tempo, revelling in moans and gasps that forced their way from both men's throats.

"Look at me John." Sherlock begged. "Let me see you, I need to look into your eyes, to know you still love me…."

"I….I….never….stopped….Ahhhh!"

With a shout John came, his violent shudders pulling Sherlock unceremoniously over the edge and into the oblivion of orgasm.

After they had trembled through the aftershocks, John reached behind him for his shirt, using it to clean the worst of the mess from their bodies before shuffling the duvet from underneath them and covering their cooling naked bodies.

"You owe me." He said as he pulled Sherlock into his arms, sighing as they wrapped limbs around each other in a warm tactile mess.

"Owe you?"

"Two years worth of love, of mad chases into the night, of morning waking up together….." John cracked open one eye and looked into Sherlock's puzzled face. "And one tube of antiseptic cream." He chuckled. "Happy New Year Sherlock!"


End file.
